


Why Couldn't They Just Tell Him?

by cjc2307



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Character Death, Drugs, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Lies, M/M, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 17:45:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7650484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cjc2307/pseuds/cjc2307
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Clint's death, Bucky is left trying to block the memories. The loss of Clint is tearing him apart. But there's something he doesn't know, something everyone has been keeping from him. Clint is alive, but is it too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why Couldn't They Just Tell Him?

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so this is my first time posting anything, so if you would like to give constructive criticism, that would be much appreciated.

Music blares louder than one might think possible, bodies push together, and the smell of sweat and alcohol fill the air. And in one of the many curtained off rooms, the white lines so carefully crafted, disappear. One after another, enough to kill a man, a normal man. He sits back and pops the top off a bottle of Vodka. One gulp, two gulps, it starts to kick in, and the pain slowly fades away, only to be rediscovered in the morning. But for now, he just wants to forget. He sighs, downing the last of the bottle, and begins to set up round two, not giving his body time to recover before the second onslaught of self prescribed pain killers. One line gone, taking the memory of the the man with the gun. Second line gone, no more shouting with no response. Third line gone, the blood is forgotten. Fourth line gone, now to forget the fallen. Fifth line gone, was it cold that day? Sixth line gone, along with the rest of the memories. Who is Clint Barton? An unknown name, an unknown face, an unknown pain. For now.  
***  
A gasp of air rips through pained lungs, sending a shock wave of regret through the body on the table. Bright lights assault the man's eyes, causing him to blink back tears. What happened? He tries to remember. There was a man, a target. He, he what? The man furrows his brow in concentration, ignoring the pain shooting through his body. A gun. A shot. Bucky! The thought of the other man has him trying to sit. Trying to escape. Bucky thinks he's dead. He has to tell Bucky! He has to let him know! He has to, he has to, he has to. And then he's gone, back to the world of nightmares. Yet to recover enough to accomplish the now ever important goal at the front of his mind, one left for another day.  
***  
A groan fills the air of the small room, prompting the awakening of the man hidden in the covers. The mountain of quilts shifts as the man underneath begins regretting his activities of the previous evening. The memory he was trying to forget has made its way to the front of his mind, forcing him to remember what has to be the worst day of his life. The day his light left him, was taken from him by a gunman. He remembers the blood, the smell of copper filling the air, making his stomach ache. He remembers it staining, staining everything, the roof, his clothes, Clint's lips. His lips. He remembers the way they quivered, the way they moved as he coughed, as more blood escaped his body. He remembers his eyes, so full of fear, so full of emotions, all of them bad. He remembers the way those eyes closed, the way the life left them. And he remembers the way he took the life from the gunman, the way his eyes looked, as Bucky squeezed the life from him. He remembers the sound, the noise the bones made as he snapped the gunman's neck. He regrets it. Not for the reasons most would, not for taking that gunman's life, but for taking it in a way that let him leave this existence in a quick manner. If he could do it over, that gunman would still be alive, and he would be begging for death.  
***  
It's the noise that wakes him this time. The shuffling of feet, the slight coughing, the murmur of voices. His friends. This time he's prepared for the light, opening his eyes carefully to let them adjust. "Bucky?" His voice sounds foreign, forced. It hurts his throat and causes him to groan and squint his eyes closed. He can hear his friends gather, the sound of movement as they circle around his bed. He realizes he's in a different place, no longer on a cold unforgiving table, but in a soft hospital bed. He reopens his eyes and searches the group. Natasha, Bruce, Tony, Steve, even Thor stands in the group, but no Bucky. "Does he know?" The question is directed at Natasha. She shakes her head. Clint takes a shaky breath, letting the air fill his injured lungs. "Why?" No one answers this time. He knows the answer. Fury. The injuries. The area. Bucky. Why tell him if there was only a slim chance that whatever procedures used would work. Why tell him if there was a possibility of it being a lie. "I have to." Natasha nods. He has to find out eventually. At least he can't be angry at Clint. "So where is he?"  
***  
The club is loud. The alcohol is strong. The drugs numb. Another perfect night to forget the pain. A night to forget it all. Even in his haze, he dreads the morning. The memories that will come with it. He goes light tonight. Light by his standards. But he has plans. Plans that start by him setting down the bottle and stumbling home. This time not back to the shabby apartment he rented to get away from it all. The reminders. The couch that they got because it was purple and purple made Clint smile. The crumpled shirt on the bedroom floor, the one that Clint had left there that morning. The spilled dog food from where Lucky had ripped into the bag. The quiver of arrows that they had left on the table. The smell of Clint’s cologne. The dent on the floor from where Clint pushed him off the counter and his arm landed first. The reminders of his dead love. He wanders into the bathroom. Glimpses Clint’s shampoo sitting on the shower ledge. He opens the drawer. Finds what he’s looking for. And for the first time in a long time, he smiles. Maybe this way he'll get to see Clint again.  
***  
The door to the apartment is slightly open. Lucky nudges his way in, happy to be home after staying with Natasha for so long. He heads straight to the kibble on the floor. Something seems off. "Bucky?" The way he calls out lets his worry enter his tone. The light is on in the en-suite bathroom. "Bucky, baby, are you here?" This time Lucky senses his worry and moves to his side. He inches into the bedroom. That’s when the smell hits. Copper. Lucky smells it to. He’s hesitant to open the door. When he does he regrets it. His world stops. Lucky is barking, but he can't seem to hear it over the ringing that has begun. Its his turn now. To see the way the blood pools. To know the light has been torn from his life. To see the way the lifeless eyes of your other half stare at nothing, accepting an end to the pain. Its his turn to scream at a lifeless body, wishing with all of his heart for the man before him to get up, to do anything, to stop being dead. Its his turn to accept defeat. Its his turn to learn to hate the memories. Its his turn to learn to hate life. Why couldn't they just tell him?


End file.
